


Of Princes and Pawns

by CalamityCain



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, F/F, Harems, Intersex Loki (Marvel), M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Objectification, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-03 15:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12751257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: Separated from his brother on a hostile planet, Loki is taken captive and forced to fight -- or rather, fuck -- for his life in a twisted elaborate game that he can survive but never win.





	1. The Prison of Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> my first attempt in a long, long time at PLOT -- something I'm not generally good at. things may or may not fall apart as we go on.

Loki was rendered breathless from the second he was slammed to the ground, and not in the pleasurable way.

 

He looked up accusingly at the patch of sky that had rudely ejected him after his thrice-damned sister had thrown Thor and himself off course to Asgard. He spent a full minute more cursing her name before taking a proper look around.

 

The strange planet had a desolate beauty about it if one paid no heed to the overpowering smell emerging from the mountains of garbage...or at least, the ones he had had the ill fortune to land among. In the horizon a fantastical cluster of spires and architectural oddities made up what was doubtless a bustling metropolis, although from where he was, it looked more like a dream than anything. A mirage of civilisation far from this scrap heap. A brief distance away, a scattering of masked and roughly armoured individuals dug through the more promising piles for all manner of salvageable treasures: precious metals, mechanical components, broken but fixable contraptions.

 

Loki rose quietly to his feet to survey this colourful wasteland – but not quietly enough. An ankle twisted in the fall made him stumble and attract the attention of a scavenger. Suddenly all of them were on alert. They turned their heads as one toward him.

 

Two of them muttered to each other in a garbled tongue as they crept closer. A squat woman in filthy rags growled a question in his direction. From another few heads, he heard the words “price” (or prize?) and “pretty” and, most disturbingly, “edible”.

 

Loki was not a stranger to such threatening situations. He opened his mouth to begin the bargaining process – when suddenly there was a whizzing sound, and a tight net of ropes was wound about his body. He cursed as his body fell to the hard rough ground a second time. Then he could curse no more as a rag was shoved forcefully to the back of his throat. He felt the scavengers close in more and more as they surveyed their newest find with gleaming eyes, their obscured faces unreadable.

 

A  good part of his magic depended on his ability to draw breath over his tongue. He summoned enough force to knock over a few of them, but more kept coming, as if the endless mountains of trash were birthing them by the second. If only he could reach his daggers –

 

Then a bolt of electricity hit him square in the chest, and a brief burst of blinding pain was chased by blackness.

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

He woke in a dim, perfumed place, silk-soft and deadly. He felt the sensuous rustle of fabric brush against his skin and knew that he was naked. No doubt every scrap of leather and metal had long passed into whatever trade system the scavengers profited from.

 

At least his limbs were freed. They struck out in reflex when hard, warm hands that smelt of scented oil gripped his shoulders. Another pair of hands attempted to still him.

 

“Shush...you will not come to harm here, pretty one.”

 

“ _You_ will if you continue to touch me,” Loki hissed. He aimed a rush of magic at one, then the other person, getting a brief glimpse of their faces, their paint-lined eyes. With another spell he brought a large glass lamp shattering down, hoping to distract them.

 

Someone took hold of his arm. Lightning-quick, he reached for a shard of glass and sunk it into flesh; an angered cry, and his arm was free. He sliced into an artery of the second assailant the same way. A third, larger man burst into the room and he sent out an abrasive icy blast that nicked a thousand small cuts into the swarthy face. Yet it was a face that remained implacable, like a rock.

 

This hulking man pinned Loki onto the bed as easily as blinking. He spat out another ice-filled blast that blinded the brute, and for a second he was free. But then the other two came and wrestled him down. A knee slammed into his back, a hand gripped his hair painfully. Someone pushed his face into the bed and held it there till he surrendered and was allowed to gasp for breath.

 

As he coughed and panted, his captors looked down at him, all bleeding from their wounds but sneering nonetheless.

 

“Subdue him – but do not damage him,” came an order. Then he was being suffocated by something damp and sickly sweet. The cloth was filling his mouth, clamping over his nose, bent on filling his every pore with its heady smell of decaying flowers. He fought not to breathe, but his body betrayed him by fighting for gulps of air, each one enfeebling him further. He thought of the graveyard rites of Midgard – flowers everywhere, wilting, rotting, like the bodies being buried. He felt he was being buried alive. He could not think; he could not move.

 

Sparks of half-woven magic died on his fingers as his limbs filled with lead and his eyelids fluttered like dying moths. His protests came out as weak, muffled whimpers through the cloth pressed relentlessly to his face. Someone stroked his hair tenderly.

 

“Go to sleep, pretty one,” came a whisper in the looming dark. “There is no need for worry...no need to do anything but dream. For here is where dreams come true...”

 

 _“Mmmhh,”_ was all Loki could say before he sank into the sleep of the dead.

 

 

 

Someone was touching him. No, stroking him. Oil-slicked fingers pushed him into a rude awakening as they slid between his ass and made him twitch in response, despite the heavy fog that he longed to sink back into.

 

When the two fingers worked him open enough to slide all the way in, he could no longer ignore the sensation. It hurt only briefly – it would be enjoyable if he had wanted it, if his head was not pressed into a pillow that stank of the decay-sweet perfume he now hated.

 

The fingers began moving to widen him, and he moaned in protest.

 

“Don’t fuss, pretty one. I’m just preparing you so you’ll be ready for ‘im.”

 

“D...don’t...call me...that...” Loki was having a hard time forming words. He could barely lift his tongue, or his eyelids.

 

“Yes, pretty one?”

 

“I...h...ave a n-name...”

 

“Sure you do, my dear. It’s of no in’erest to me though.” The fingers had finished with his first opening and was moving higher up, to where his cunt lay beneath a cock that – despite his drugged state – was hardening just a little.

 

He began to register that the lower half of his body was not lying on the bed, but suspended a good two feet above it with chains attached to leather straps around his ankles. He tried to move his toes, but there was no feeling in them just yet. There was, however, an all too intense rush of feeling in the intimate area where the steady stroking had made him warm and slick.

 

A finger slid in and out of his cunt, and he bit back another moan. “The Grandmaster likes ‘em dripping for ‘im,” said the reedy voice with a chuckle. Loki felt some gentle but methodical prodding about his intimate area, as if he was being subject to examination. “But I gather ‘e’ll not want you too wet just yet; seeing as you’re new, and ‘e won’t want someone playin’ with his new toy too much. Eh?”

 

The man rose and left, but not before landing a light smack on his bottom. The chains swayed a little. Loki began to fully appreciate how terribly exposed and vulnerable he was. A faint tug told him his wrists were tied to the bedposts. With his legs lifted and spread out, and that damned fog still clouding his head, he could not be in a more helpless position.

 

His sluggish thoughts drifted to Thor. Was there any chance his brother had landed somewhere else on this godforsaken planet? Any chance of being found before...well, before this Grandmaster person came and subjected him to all manner of ravishment?

 

Loki felt his throat tighten. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing all of this to be a dream. Perhaps he was still unconscious after being zapped in the chest by those scavenging barbarians –

 

A rustle told him he had a visitor. He opened his eyes.

 

A figure in dark robes and an impassive golden mask stood before him, wordlessly drinking in the sight of him, each naked inch of Loki’s spread-out thighs and the wet, warm sex between.

 

“Are you the Grandmaster?” His voice, at least, was now steady; though his heart was pounding as his senses began to recover.

 

The hooded head moved in a way that might be a nod, or a no. It did not respond, but moved steadily closer till Loki could smell him...yes, definitely a him. A pleasantly masculine but light, piquant fragrance that was nothing like the sickly aromas he had been subject to.

 

Then a leather gloved hand pressed down on his narrow chest, and Loki felt a new wave of fear.

 

“Please – I’m sure we can come to an arrangement...if you release me...” He tried to keep his tone composed, but it was hard when that cold gleaming mask bored its gaze into his without giving anything in return, and the robed body seemed to loom larger than life in the dimly lit room.

 

Then the full weight of the man was upon him, and the gloved hand was smothering him, filling his mouth with the taste of leather. He struggled to no avail – his wrists were locked in place and panic was starting to overwhelm him. His spells and hard-won adeptness at mage-work refused to materialize; ancient runes he had spent decades memorizing slipped away before they could take shape in his mind.

 

He had barely registered the hard cock against his ass before it was suddenly buried deep inside him. He cried out with pain. The man was gripping his hips and thrusting ruthlessly with no care for how much it hurt him. He was pleading now; he hated himself, absolutely loathed his naked fear and desperation. Loathed the looming, faceless silence that his assailant wielded while sobs threatened to spill from his own throat.

 

The leather-clad fingers were around his neck, squeezing till he felt giddy and certain he would die here in this bed, beneath this nameless stranger. Then the hands released him. The pain of the thrusting resumed.

 

From a distance, he heard the growing roar of a crowd. They seemed to be applauding his rape; glorifying in it. An amplified booming voice announced: _“Let the games begin!”_

 

What came after that – the indistinct sounds of violence, the clamouring of a bloodthirsty audience – was of no consequence to him. Far more immediate was the unwelcome spill of seed down his thighs and belly. He had never felt more soiled in his life. He was hot and cold all over; half enraged, half in shock.

 

And the stranger was not yet done with him.

 

A hand now caressed his neck and chest, toying with his nipples till they were rigid. Another pressed on his cunt and began rubbing in slow circles. The texture of leather was intensely arousing. He was wet; then he was dripping. He hated his body for responding. But respond it did.

 

By the time two fingers made their way inside his slick passage, he was gasping not with pain but with need. The position of his elevated hips made it impossible for him to thrust back, but he knew he would have if he could, against his very will. The thrusting grew more and more insistent until he gave in and climaxed with a startlingly loud moan.

 

The mad in the golden mask leaned in close; again that clean piquant scent of orange blossoms and musk and sea salt. He shivered uncontrollably until a gloved hand stroked the back of his neck. “Sshhhh.” The first sound to emerge from behind the immovable gilded lips.

 

His bonds were being removed. His legs were finally let down; they cramped up horribly, but not for long. Breathing raggedly, Loki pulled himself upright, wincing at how he hurt from being torn open. He touched his face and realised they were streaked with tears.

 

The cool rim of a goblet was being pressed to his lips. Despite his thirst, the first taste of the cold sweet drink brought him to his senses. He pushed the cup away. But a hand gripped the back of his head and the drink was being forced down his throat. “Mmmffh – _ngffhh!”_ Despite his choking and struggling, most of it made its way down his gullet, leaving a chilly trail that made him start shivering anew.

 

A blanket was being pulled around him. He bit his lip till it bled to clamp down a fresh wave of fearful sobs. Then the shivering ceased; his shoulders went limp as the effects of the drink sank in. His eyelids drooped and he fell back onto the cushions, helpless to stop the room and the golden mask from fading away.

 

 

*  *  *

 

He woke to a sore throat, a heavy head, and the news that Thor, too, had been taken captive.

 

The hunched reedy-voiced man who had ‘prepared’ him for pleasure (except that nothing had prepared him for what actually commenced) had delivered the news. “He says he is your brother,” the man added with an unreadable smirk on his whey-coloured face.

 

Was his brother being subject to the same abuse? Perhaps not. Surely not. The thought of large, radiant, invincible Thor being violated, humiliated, was almost more than he could bear.

 

As the manservant swept out of the chamber, he received another at the door. Loki’s head cleared when he heard the man murmur “Grandmaster.”

 

The personage who entered could not be more different than the one who left. Radiating an almost leonine warmth, the Grandmaster was the kind to whom elegance came as easily as breathing. His gold and azure robes, painted eyes and many ornate rings would have looked garish on a lesser man. On him they were not even a costume but seemingly an extension of his being. His silver hair shone gently in the golden lamplight...which, Loki noted, visibly brightened with his very presence. The illumination also allowed him to appreciate, for the first time, the room’s luxurious furnishings.

 

“Awake at last,” he beamed. “Welcome to Sakaar.”

 

He took Loki’s hand and kissed it. It was unexpected, and left Loki feeling strangely breathless.

 

“Have you eaten? Have they properly fed and watered you?”  


Loki shook his head, feeling somehow less indignant than he should. “They even took my clothes – ” he gestured to his body, then realised he was no longer naked. Although it was doubtful if the delicate chains and scraps of silk constituting this new garb could count as clothing.

 

“Well, that just won’t do! What does it take to get good help these days?” The man clapped his hands twice, and precisely two seconds later there were servants at the door. They brought in tray upon tray of unidentifiable delicacies. They laid it all out on an ivory-top table, bowed their heads, and left as silently as they had come.

 

Loki looked at all the food, stomach rumbling even as his throat constricted. In the short time he had been here, he had been manhandled, tied up, electrocuted, drugged and raped. And now this man was kissing him on the hand and serving him a feast. He gripped the sheets till his knuckles hurt. He felt vaguely hysterical.

 

“What’s wrong, Loki? Sweetheart?”

 

It was the first time anyone had called him by name. Faintly, he registered that the Grandmaster had a voice like rich mulled wine.

 

“Look, these aren’t poisoned, darling.” To prove it, the man popped a handful of odd-coloured berries into his mouth, first coating them with a generous dollop of cream. He proceeded to sample every dish, feeding Loki after himself with each tasting. There were savoury flavours, tart flavours, fruity flavours, textures ranging from smooth to tingly to what could only be described as hairy, and innocuous-looking bites that left a spicy burn. There was a shrimp-like creature that looked quite dead but wriggled in his mouth. The Grandmaster laughed when he spat it out.

 

“Perhaps this will be more to your taste, Loki of Asgard.” He poured an amber liquid into an ornately carved burnished copper mug and held it out.

 

“How do you know – ?”

 

“I have my ways.” A wink. He reached out to brush a lock of stray hair from Loki’s face.

 

Loki was outraged to find himself blushing and hid this fact behind the copper mug, which turned out to be full of warm spiced cider. It was indeed quite similar to the kind he had grown up with.

 

“Tell me more about yourself, Loki of Asgard.”

 

He tried to clear his head; it wasn’t easy, with those warm dark brown eyes fixed upon him as if he were the most interesting creature in the world. “Why don’t _you_ tell me more about why I’m here?”

 

The man looked taken aback. “You’re not here by your own accord?”

 

“I was taken captive and rendered unconscious. I woke up in this room and haven’t been allowed to leave since. And...and I...” Loki swallowed. “I have been treated with nothing but force and violence by your people.” He took another gulp of cider before realising the Grandmaster had not tasted it.

 

“Oh, but there must have been some misunderstanding. You see, we get shiploads of...well, unsavoury characters coming through every day. Most of them get the treatment they deserve. But you...such a jewel. Such beauty. How could they _ever?”_

 

The ringed fingers were stroking his shoulder, his chin, caressing and arranging his hair. Loki closed his eyes, dizzy in a way that did not feel cider-induced. For some reason his wits were not serving him. Never had he felt this befuddled...this _overwhelmed._

 

“Let me make it up to you,” he heard the Grandmaster say in that low, warm voice. _Everything will be alright._

 

The man’s lips were upon his. He let himself fall into the kiss.

 

He felt cradled, safe, assured. The man smelt like the air did before a storm, which made him ache deeply for Thor. Was it true that Thor was here, right now, not so far from this chamber...?

 

_Don’t think of anyone else. You are the world to me. Let me be yours._

 

When the Grandmaster’s fingers found their way to the cleft between his legs, he moaned and leaned into the touch. He pushed his lips deeper into the kiss, hungry for more. And where he hungered, the Grandmaster gave, and gave.

 

The warm lips left his, and the man licked his fingers before dipping them back into Loki’s wet cunt. “You taste better than anything we’ve just had,” he murmured. “See...” And he slid the come-slicked fingers into Loki’s mouth.

 

“Taste good, don’t you?”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Mind you lick them clean. Like a good boy.”

 

Despite being undeniably aroused, he also felt warm and drowsy. A hand was stroking the nape of his neck as the other explored the inside of his mouth with firm, experienced fingers that fed him his own pre-come. Now he was being pushed, gently, onto his back; now his cock was being stroked in steady motions that dragged him with maddening slowness toward orgasm.

 

He was being touched and teased and pinched with such deftness it almost hurt. The slow burn coursing through his nerves built up till he could no longer hold it in. With a series of sharp gasps he came messily, gloriously, his head swimming as the ceiling blurred before coming back into focus.

 

Another kiss. Less gentle than the first but no less generous; full of hot tongue and ardour and those feathery touches on his neck, the small of his back, that made him shiver. Loki felt himself swoon in the man’s arms. He clung to consciousness – he did not want to lose control again, to wake to strangeness and the threat of brutality.

 

“Don’t leave me here.” After a beat, he added a seductive “Please.”

 

The paint-lined eyes crinkled with warmth. “As you wish, darling.”

 

 

 

The pleasure grounds of Sakaar were surprisingly ethereal. He had anticipated the gaudy and ornate, had expected ostentatious displays like the brocade tapestries in the chamber they had left. He had been prepared for large lascivious sculptures that left nothing to imagination.

 

Instead, here was a world of sheltered paths, hidden picturesque gardens, and lanterns that hovered like pale moons. Hints of amber and cinnamon lingered in the cool air. Brightly feathered birds flitted freely from branch to branch where lazed the occasional jewel-eyed serpent. In the daytime the silver-leafed trees would surely gleam all the more, and the scent of their ripe fruit would beckon.

 

Now and then an amorous whisper was heard; here a languid song of zithers and bells; there a glimpse of beautiful young men and nymph-like women, bare-shouldered and laughing, running weightlessly through a thicket maze.

 

 _“Ukiyo,”_ Loki whispered into the night.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“The floating world of ancient Edo...the old Japan. On Midgard. Where illusion and art are one and the same, and everything is but a dream.” His gaze wandered down a narrow inviting lane where slim coy figures disappeared through doors. “I was there, briefly, in the guise of a _tayu_ courtesan.”

 

“Fascinating. Tell me more.”

 

“It is hard to capture; you had to be there. It was a place that relied not just on stone and wood and mortar, but on the collective imagination. A place you create in your mind, and will it forth. This haven of yours is not quite identical to the _ukiyo_ in appearance...but in spirit, it is very close.”

 

“Hmm. A place where anything can happen.” Those fingers running down his back again. He tried not to shiver.

 

“Indeed. Or so it seems.”

 

“And what do _you_ seek, in this...floating world?”

 

 _To be free of it,_ thought Loki. Instead he answered by taking the Grandmaster’s hand, running it over his open lips and down his neck. He answered with his body, pressing it against the other’s, waiting till he felt the man’s sex harden against his thigh before abruptly pulling away.

 

“Tease,” the Grandmaster growled playfully as Loki smiled and disappeared into one of the half-hidden gardens.

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

It took several days and nights, one blurring into the next, before he could get close to obtaining the information he sought. Each sunset saw them in a different bedchamber, or out in the open, the wind tickling his bare back as the Grandmaster bent him over a stone fountain or a bench softened with velvety petals and had his way with him. Once or twice a merry stranger passed them by and hooted appreciatively.

 

It soon became evident, too, that the Grandmaster loved his games – both in and out of the arena where gladiator slaves were made to battle for spectacle, a place he suspected captives like Thor must be headed for. By the third night blindfolds and shackles were the order of the day. Loki found himself suspended from the air in an elaborate swing-like contraption – wrists pinned to his back, legs spread with a cold steel bar, and pleasuring the Grandmaster’s sizeable cock with his tongue while robbed of sight.

 

“No relief for you till I come in your tight little mouth,” said his captor in that smooth, warm voice. Almost an hour later and Loki remained hanging from the ceiling, ready to sob at how his own dripping sex ached and throbbed.

 

No matter how tender the Grandmaster was to his precious new pet, no matter how attentively those lips worshipped every inch of his body, he was not allowed to come without explicit permission. Loki soon found himself stealing away for a much-needed moment alone when his urge grew too great and he was near feverish with arousal. Sometimes he wondered if the constant edging kept his wits duller than usual or if he was simply out of his depth. Loki had a tendency to bite off more than he could comfortably chew, but he always landed back on his feet...eventually.

 

But it seemed this time he had met his match. The Grandmaster was in the habit of springing up on him with surprise ‘inspections’ where a hand would snake beneath his garments and check for telltale signs. If he suspected Loki of pleasuring himself without orders, the punishment was a thorough spanking that left him dizzy with pain...and still, after all that, unsatisfied.

 

It only happened once, and on a sultry afternoon where he would rather have been eating iced fruit in a shaded gazebo than be displayed outside it with his increasingly reddened ass bared for all to see. The paddle was a finely made thing of satin-smooth rosewood inlaid with mother of pearl. One would never have guessed at its function as an instrument of discipline. His wrists were tied to the rafter above and his unprotected nipples were pinched every so often in between blows. Passers-by were given license to participate in the punishment, stopping short of actually fucking him in any one of his openings. Those were still the property of the Grandmaster alone.

 

There was one occasion on which this strict rule – defining which parts of his body were accessible to whom – was relaxed.

 

After biding his time and proving his worth, Loki was finally freed for a night from the secluded pleasure palace to attend a lavish party being thrown in honour of a particularly anticipated battle the next day. The Grandmaster was having moneyed guests flown in, teleported or otherwise materialised from numerous planets and realms for a night and day of feasting, fucking and watching warriors bludgeon each other for their gambling amusement.

 

When he expressed regret that he would barely have time to make use of Loki during such an affair, Loki had replied: “I can pour a mean martini. You do have those here, no?”

 

“Martinis we have. Bartenders, we also have.”

 

Loki stretched a coy leg across the Grandmaster’s lap. “You need someone to serve them.”

 

A slow smile crept across the man’s face. “Now that I think about it...you could be quite the spectacle.” He seemed possessed of notions that made him lustful, and made vigorous love to Loki for nearly two hours straight.

 

Loki wondered just what he was thinking of. He did not have to wait long to find out.

 

 

 


	2. The Grandmaster's Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the rest of this story deviates from the events and sequence in the film, although the settings are similar. 
> 
> Also:  
> i am sorry for all the ways in which i abuse Loki (except not really)

The inside of the sprawling club was a shock to the senses after being confined to a sheltered world of winding stone paths and delicate lanterns. Loki could not comprehend how neon orange, red, yellow and plastic white could ever have been considered a reasonable colour scheme for anything – let alone an entire wall-to-ceiling space. To top it all off were stripes of glaring blue light running through everything and turning the hors d'oeuvres he was serving a sickly bruised shade.

 

Not that anyone appeared to be complaining. As far as Loki could tell, the dress code of the day was outshine and out-blind. A significant portion of the crowd wore garments that fought with the interior décor for attention: swathes of gold, chunks of silver, shining acid-green, offensive shades of purple, and ever so many sparkling stones.

 

He himself was tasteful – artful even – by comparison. The Grandmaster’s servants had adorned him with a slim crescent-shaped choker connected to a soft mesh lattice that clung to him like a second skin, leaving very little to imagination and also leaving his entire back bare save a single filigree braid running down his spine. The whole thing ended in a deep blue-green silk thong with a belt of delicate chains that hung from his hips, designed to sway pleasingly with every step. On his upper and lower arms slim serpentine circlets completed the look.

 

A small glowing blue sigil had been inked into his upper thigh for the night, marking him as belonging to the Grandmaster. He noticed that any gaze drawn to appraise his form gleamed with intensified interest once they glimpsed the mark.

 

Perhaps it served to protect him as much as it drew attention – he could not be sure. He remained mostly unmolested as he wove through the crowd with his alternating trays of succulent morsels and cocktails. One exception was an elderly woman who gave his ass a good squeeze. Another guest, with acrid breath, tried to force a sloppy kiss on him. Loki took the liberty of emptying a bright pink beverage over his head.

 

This act caught the eye of one of the bartenders, who smirked her approval. Having been relieved of the last glass on his tray, he went to her for more.

 

“At least you’re having more fun than your brother,” she said in greeting.

 

The room abruptly faded away as he honed in on her words. “What brother?”

 

“Oh, don’t play dumb. I hauled him in myself. Was well paid for it, too.” She filled a whole row of glasses expertly before taking a shot herself. “He’s been asking after you.”

 

“You hauled him in. By whose orders?”

 

“I only take orders when I’m behind bars. On other days, I’m a free bounty hunter.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “Oh, alright; scavenger. Or scrappers as they’re known here.”

 

“Huh. You don’t look like you wade in trash for a living.”

 

“Least I’m not fighting for my life.” She grabbed a bottle and filled a large round glass with amber-coloured liquid that smelt like it could burn through wood. “Or fucking for my life.” She arched an eyebrow at him.

 

“Ha ha.”

 

A part of his mind had registered the tattoo on her forearm when she lifted it to swig her drink. “You’re an Asgardian.”

 

The woman regarded him for a long moment over the rim of her glass. “Was.”

 

“That mark’s not been seen in Asgard for a long time.”

 

“And you know why, don’t you?” Her friendly eyes had gone cold.

 

“Don’t look at me like it’s _my_ fault. I didn’t even know I had a sister.”

 

“I’m not blaming you for anything. I just don’t like nosy remarks about my past, especially as I never mentioned yours.”

 

“Well, _your_ past at least is something to sing about. Valkyrie.”

 

Her cool look turned into something like sadness, just for a second. “Brunnhilde. ‘Valkyrie’ is an office, not a name. And it’s an office that no longer exists.”

 

“The job of Shieldmaid, protector of Asgard no longer exists? We are even more doomed than I thought.”

 

Brunnhilde looked down at the amber liquor, which was now gently steaming. Then she emptied the entire glass in one gulp. While marvelling at this ability – his tray of filled cocktail glasses forgotten – he ruminated over their conversation, picking it apart in his head, and recalled something she had said earlier.

 

“Thor...he’s been asking after me?”

 

She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a booming announcement from the Grandmaster.

 

“Honoured guests from the ten corners of the universe! We are gathered in my humble home on Sakaar to witness, on the morrow, the last of this year’s Great Games. A high-stakes battle of epic proportions...where not all who enter the arena will leave alive.” A round of cheers greeted his words.

 

“But!” The man held up a gold-tipped finger. “Tonight, we have another treat in store. A little surprise, an added touch of merriment – and for one lucky bidder, a most delightful, delicious treat.”

 

A murmur of interest rippled through the partygoers at the word ‘bidder’. Loki felt a sudden twist in his gut – the kind he always got when things appeared to be going his way, and then they didn’t.

 

In a purposefully elaborate gesture, the Grandmaster extended a hand in his direction. “Loki of Asgard...if you would grace us with your presence?”

 

There was no escape now. All eyes in the club were on him. Then a hand gripped his arm, and he heard Brunnhilde hiss: “Don’t drink anything they give you.”

 

He pretended to shake her off. Smiling serenely, he sauntered to the Grandmaster’s side.

 

“Prince Loki comes to us from a faraway kingdom; the mighty, glorious realm of the fair Æsir. Turn around for us, would you?”

 

As Loki reluctantly turned on the spot, he was shocked to feel his clothes (what little there was of them) disappear for a second, giving everyone a uninhibited view of his bare ass, before rematerializing as he came back to face them. His face burned as he tried to fix his gaze somewhere without a leering, prying eye.

 

“Yes, yes; absolutely stunning. As for his skills in the bedchamber...I can personally vouch that they are unrivalled. It helps, of course, that not only is he a vision of beauty. But also a master mage and shapeshifter. Behold!”

 

Loki felt the man’s hand brush his back. As if the sorcery was his own doing, Loki’s garments began shifting and a faint tingling sensation crept up his arms, his neck and temple, even as the lights dimmed for a more dramatic effect. There were soft exclamations and excited whispers all round.

 

Loki turned to a long strip of mirrored glass and his eyes widened. In place of the gold filigree and chains was a skin-tight fabric made of very tiny silver scales, rippling and shimmering like water in the dim glow. They hugged his torso, leaving his shoulders bare, and ended in threads fine as spidersilk that just barely draped his nether parts. But the most dramatic change was the iridescent scaled patterns running up his limbs, adorning his cheekbones and forehead. They appeared to gleam with their own light. The effect was both alien and attractive.

 

“A truly exquisite creature, is Prince Loki of Asgard. And he is the star of a special auction that begins...well...right now!” The Grandmaster grinned broadly.

 

“What – ” Loki had barely time to react when a glass tube rose from the floor and trapped him where he stood. His cheeks burned, though no one could see it beneath the gleaming scales. Among clusters of richly dressed Makluan merchants, a flurry of heated mutters were already taking place. Their bulbous eyes studied him in a way that made his skin crawl.

 

He pressed his palms against the glass, trying to get a feel for its enchantments. He tried to unbind them. But his magic seemed as dim as his surroundings. As if trapped beneath a later of smog. Was Brunnhilde’s warning true – that every drink he’d been given had been tampered with? Was his perpetual light-headedness in the Grandmaster’s presence due to more than the man’s attractive, magnetic nature?

 

Questions, questions. All without answers. He hit the glass in frustration. It remained unyielding.

 

A deep bell rang from above. “The bidding starts at five thousand silvers!”

 

 

 

Barely six minutes and twenty thousand silvers later, Loki found himself forcibly drugged once more and pushed into a circular chamber, where his boneless limbs pulled him down onto sheets nearly as gaudy as the club he’d left behind.

 

The bedpost’s reflective surface revealed that the iridescent markings had faded and his appearance was back to normal. He lifted a half-numb hand to touch the spot on his neck where a needle had shot a fiery substance into his veins. One that had caused him to keel over into the arms of his victorious bidder...whose face, when he beheld it, had made his heart drop.

 

It was the same beast over whose head he’d emptied a cocktail glass.

 

The large creature looked like a half-Skrull, and half...something unidentified and slimy. He leered unreservedly as he poured a glass of wine from a crystal decanter and held it out. Loki, recalling Brunnhilde’s advice, declined the drink. He wondered if it was poisoned. Was the Grandmaster in the habit of leaving the playthings he lost interest in for dead? Had he not been successful in keeping the wily ruler seduced?

 

Perhaps it was meant merely to fog his mind. As if the foul thing now running in his blood was not enough. It was futile to struggle as a large hand gripped him hard enough to bruise and ripped the skimpy gauzy threads before having a free run of his body – pinching his nipples, parting his mouth to slide a foul-tasting finger in. He gagged and bit down in protest. For this he received a slap that sent him collapsing to the floor.

 

He was dragged to his knees. The cock that pushed itself into his mouth without ceremony was ridged and terribly large. _Suck him off,_ Loki told himself. _Satisfy him before he tears your ass apart with this thing._ But it was hard when all he could do was choke and gag and struggle for breath from the relentless thrusting. Oh, Norns. The creature tasted absolutely _horrid._

 

Then the engorged sex left his throat and he could breathe again. He could barely resist as the half-Skrull pushed his face into the pillow and parted his legs. The wave of acrid breath made him retch. When the brute leaned close with tongue hanging out, it became too much. He felt his stomach jerk involuntarily and spewed a thin stream of bile over the sheets and down his chest. His throat burned; he moaned in discomfort, wanting nothing more than a hot bath.

 

There was a sound of disgusted outrage from his bidder. A hand lifted him painfully by his hair and threw him against the wall. Something inside him shattered; he wasn’t sure what. Everything hurt but he had no strength to yell. Then his head was being slammed into the hard surface; he cried out weakly as the world exploded into a flash of hot white before blurring into dark shadows.

 

Semi-conscious and immobile, he was dragged onto a nearby loveseat couch and bent over the armrest so that his ass was lifted in offering to the vile creature. He felt the Skrullish hands pin him down so hard one of his ribs began to crack, and then splinter. The fiery pain jolted him back to awareness as tears gushed from his eyes. But the tears garnered no mercy. If anything, violence appeared to arouse his victor anew. The hands were spreading him out, and then that large, ridged appendage was pressing itself against his hole, ready to rip right into his flesh....

 

From a distance he heard strains of a familiar voice. One he’d longed to hear more than any other in all the worlds. With all the will he could summon, he called out hoarsely:

  
“ _Thor!_ Help me!”

 

The doors burst open with a bang. Lightning filled the air.

 

His once golden-maned brother had been shorn of his hair and looked ragged, careworn; but at that moment he could not have been fiercer. His blue eyes burned electric-white. There was lightning running down his arms.

 

Beside him stood Brunnhilde, looking every inch the Valkyrie: armed with gauntlets and a large sword, her hair wild with the static pouring off Thor. She smiled grimly at Loki. “Thought I’d make amends for abducting your brother.”

 

Then all became a blur as Thor launched himself at the brute and wrecked the furnishings into splinters as he made short work of his opposer. Loki felt Brunnhilde lift him up and sling him with a grunt over her back. With the beast defeated, they turned and strode through the battered door – or rather, a ragged hole where the door had been – down the corridor leading from the chamber.

 

Loki coughed a spray of blood all over Brunnhilde’s shoulder, pain from his battered insides turning his vision red. “Sorry,” he rasped, barely hearing her sarcastic but not unkind reply. Thor reached out and stroked his hair soothingly. He could have wept at how good it felt.

 

“I would have come for you sooner, brother,” said Thor, his voice thick with countless things unsaid; if only there was time for them. “I’ve been imprisoned with the other fighters. Survived one battle; two more to go, when Brunnhilde broke me out. Even though she was the one who put me there.”

 

“Well, I’ve collected my money, and it’s no skin off my back if the bounty goes missing.” She smiled but her eyes were steel. “Besides, we Asgardians gotta stick together.”

 

Thor’s hand was brushing his back now. The gesture said: _I’ll take care of you. I’m here now._

 

A lump rose in his throat. He would have blacked out then. Left his brother to keep him safe the way he had done when they were much, much younger. But the sight that greeted them at the end of the corridor, blocking their path to freedom, kicked him awake with fear.

 

It was the man in the golden mask.

 

“You get to safety – I’ll hold them off,” Thor growled.

 

“Them?” Then Brunnhilde saw what he meant: there was more than one masked opponent. On either side of the dark-robed man, more faceless figures slid in like shadows.

 

“Go,” Thor insisted.

 

Brunnhilde shook her head. “Not a chance. These fellas have shit hidden up their sleeves I don’t like.” She was right; the figures were no ordinary fighters, multiplying like magic till they filled the corridor end to end, then gliding forward in attack.

 

Putting Loki down, Brunnhilde drew her sword and joined Thor in lopping off heads and smashing in skulls. Despite their fearsome skills, and the might of generations of Asgard warriors in their blood, they were near overwhelmed. The masked men were like ghosts – as soon as one died another appeared. But they met the challenge gamely with battle-lust building in their eyes. Soon they were howling triumphantly as they cut down any in their path, the taste of their own blood seeming only to thrill them.

 

Now and then Thor would swing his blade and cut down whoever so much as touched Loki, who – still drugged and weakened by injury – was torn between curling in a corner and attempting to crawl away. Would they have been free long ago if he still wielded Mjolnir? Pointless to wonder.

 

As the two of them began virtually drowning in robed masked fighters, one of them slipped away from the battle and bent over Loki. The voice behind the golden face hissed something sinister, and Loki was overwhelmed by the scent of orange blossoms and sea salt. The scent of the anonymous man who had brutally raped him on his first night in Sakaar.

 

In a curious mix of terror and defiance, Loki whimpered and shrank back, then reached out to tear away the mask.

 

It was Thor. Thor’s beautiful, radiant face with ice-blue, unfeeling eyes.

 

“NO!” Loki screamed.

 

Then the face shifted and sank in like wet sand, and became the Grandmaster’s jovial, handsome, grinning visage.

 

With a hoarse yell Loki clawed at the paint-lined eyes, determined to gouge them out. But the illusion fell away like sand between his fingers. Then the dark robes collapsed in on themselves. The man was gone.

 

“Their masks,” Loki called weakly. Then, louder: “The masks – tear them off!”

 

Brunnhilde gripped the head of the man she was fighting and pried his mask off. Then her triumphant growl turned to horror as she beheld the face of her lover. Her dead lover.

 

She heard the sounds of wingbeats, the distant cries of dying horses. The battlefield was strewn with the bodies of dead shieldmaidens.

 

“Brunn,” the fair-haired woman whispered before blood flowed from her mouth and she fell backward, her body collapsing into sand.

 

“It’s an illusion. Ignore it!” Loki reached out to clasp her shoulder. “Just an illusion.”

 

With a quivering hand Brunnhilde reached out to empty air. _Don’t leave me._

 

“She...she died beside me on the day we fell,” Brunnhilde gasped, tears in her eyes. “The day the Valkyria fell.” A sob threatened to spill from her trembling lips before she swallowed it. “I am the last...the only one. I wish I could have gone with her.”

 

Thor, having reduced a gang of masked fighters to sand, came up and embraced her tightly. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “I was shocked myself when my late mother’s face appeared beneath a vile mask.”

 

“Mother?” Loki said sharply. (What he would have given to see her again – even a replica of her – for one moment...)

 

“This is foul magic,” said Thor darkly. “Absolutely foul – ”

 

“What’s that sound?” whispered Brunnhilde.

 

A chill wind swept through the corridor, raising the hairs on their skin, as the remaining golden-faced phantoms melted away as swiftly as they had materialised. The walls grew thin, flickered, disappeared. And a thunderous sound began to fill the air.

 

It was applause.

 

 


	3. A Perilous Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for a rather weak chapter. Hopefully things will get better in the next one. I warned you I was not good at plot. {Although I did indulge my screen dream of giving Val a girlfriend.}

“Congratulations,” boomed a warm, smooth voice, “on being three of the most amusing, sporting players Sakaar has seen in centuries.”

 

“W...what?” Thor’s shock and outrage rippled forth so strongly it set their hairs on end.

 

“Brunnhilde – Scrapper 142 – was not initially a participant. But she has added a, well, fantastic twist to the series of events, wouldn’t you say?” An additional wave of cheers went up for the ex-Valkyrie, whose face burned almost as fierce as her eyes.

 

“This bounty hunter and occasional bartender has been an integral part in keeping our Games going for years. Perhaps it’s fitting, after all, that she will now be a part of it.”

 

A three-dimensional projection appeared in the air. A series of vignettes showed glimpses of what had taken place in the pleasure chamber earlier, ending with the half-Skrull’s dead body lying amidst the rubble.

 

“Regrettable, what happened to the winner of our little auction. But his ferocity will not be soon forgotten. Nor will his killer’s!”

 

Loki drew a sharp, painful breath. The audience had seen it all...seen him stripped and spread out; seen him throwing up on himself, and beaten nearly to a pulp for it...He cast his gaze away so they would not see the tears of humiliation. Thor curled a protective arm around him with a low angry growl.

 

“Now, the Crown City of Sakaar is ruled by its time-honoured imperial traditions. And tradition dictates that all slaves or captives may win the liberties of a citizen if they survive three rounds in the arena.” A pause. “But times, uh, must change.”

 

The cheers and excited hooting died down in anticipation of the Grandmaster’s next words.

 

“Thor, Lord of Thunder, has already fought one round and triumphed. These other two remain untested. Though while I say ‘untested’, anyone who has just seen Scrapper 142 in action will not take her lightly.

 

“As for Loki, the other Prince of Asgard – ahaha, yes, it turns out Thor and he are brothers! – he is in no fit condition to fight. But not to worry...in this year’s Games, there are challenges other than the blood-spilling kind....”

 

Thor drew Loki closer. “You will not touch him!”

 

To these words there was no reply. Their surroundings were shrinking as the walls went up once more and the noise of the spectators faded away. At the same time, a small army of towering well-armoured guards surrounded the three.

 

Before they could put up a fight, they were pinioned ruthlessly and a round metal disc slapped onto each of their chests. The discs sprouted fine spider-like legs that embedded themselves into the flesh. “Not these damned things again!” went Thor. Brunnhilde only groaned in regret.

 

“Why, what do they – ”

 

Then Loki had his question answered as one of the guards squeezed a slim remote device that set off a blindingly strong electric current through the metal discs. The three contestants collapsed to the ground as one.

 

 

 

When Thor opened his eyes, it was to morning sun shining cheerfully through circular windows in a spacious, well-furnished chamber. The walls were a soft white, and only the brightly coloured chairs and cushions hinted at the gaudiness one came to expect of this place.

 

He slowly rose to a sitting position, finding he did not ache as much as he thought he would. Also he was wearing clean clothes: a simple tunic and trousers in a pleasant dark blue with gold trim. The disc, unfortunately, remained attached to his chest.

 

He looked to his right and saw Loki in the next bed. His heart sang with joy even in their perilous situation – a surge of protectiveness nearly overcame him, at being close to his brother once more. Loki was pale and slightly worn but in much better condition than the broken, bloodied, pain-wracked creature he had been last night. The wounds on his face had already faded. He, too, had been cleaned up and dressed in a similar tunic in a slightly lighter blue.

 

Thor smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. He felt Loki’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek.

 

“ _Mmm._ You woke me from a good dream.”

 

“Was I in it?”

 

“Not everything I do revolves around you, Thor.”

 

Thor grinned down at him. Their lips met.

 

“I knew you were here from the moment I landed. I could feel it.”  
  
“Rubbish. Brunnhilde told me you were asking around for me. No subtlety, as usual.”

 

A hand brushed his chest. Loki’s fingers explored the edge of the cool metal disc. “My magic has been sapped from me,” he sighed. “I should be capable of getting this thing off, but...”

 

“Rest first, Loki. We’ll find a way out. We’re together now.” They kissed again, leisurely, deeply, like they had not done in a long time.

 

Thor shifted his weight; he felt the other wince. “I’m sorry. You’re still healing...” He ran a hand gently over Loki’s torso, then slid into bed beside him so as not to risk crushing him.

 

Loki’s hand slipped beneath his tunic. He responded in kind. Lifting the fabric and seeing the faint blossoms of purple bruises was enough to make him hurt. He felt both fierce and tender, as if he would dedicate the entirety of his life to protecting his little brother.

 

He stroked the nape of Loki’s neck, cupping his chin, while the other kneaded Loki’s slim thigh and slid down the waistband of the trousers. Loki’s nails dug into his back; just enough to sting lightly, the way he liked it. Their breathing picked up at the familiar sensations. Thor moaned as his cock began to harden. He widened his legs so he could grind it against Loki’s –

 

“AAAAAARRGHH!”

 

It wasn’t clear who screamed first when the jolt hit them. It was only when they parted that the searing pain spreading from their chests died down.

 

“W-what...what the...”  Loki, white with pain at the shock to his fractured ribs, tentatively touched his disc. Nothing happened. “Is this thing m-made to keep people from being intimate?”

 

“And why?” said Thor, still shaking.

 

Brunnhilde appeared from the adjoining room, her mass of dark hair still sleep-mussed. “What happened?”

 

“We were given a little surprise by this...thing.” Thor pointed at his disc.

 

She frowned. “But why? What did you do?”

 

Loki gave his brother a pointed look. “Do you want to tell her, or shall I?”

 

“Tell her what?”

 

“Tell me what?”

 

“Loki...uh...gave me a hug.”

 

There was a prolonged silence in which Loki looked deeply exasperated at how a bad a liar his brother was.

 

“Oh, please.” She wore the same smirk she had greeted Loki with when they first met. “You think I lived over four decades in the capital of Sakaar without seeing worse? By all means, do what you do. I’ll leave you alone.”

 

“Yes – well, we can’t. In fact. Do what we _do.”_ Loki gritted his teeth. “These infernal things make sure of that.”

 

“Loki, are you sure – ”

 

“Would you like to try again, Thor?” He held his arms open mockingly. “Give me a kiss, brother.”

 

“We were fine when it was just kissing...”

 

“Really? At what point does the pain kick in?” Brunnhilde was, quite remarkably, already at the bar and reaching for the biggest bottle. “Can I watch?”

 

“Seems like being in the Grandmaster’s favour rubbed off on you. What’s next; you’ll take bets on who jerks off whom?”

 

“Oohh, watch where you throw your barbs. Don’t forget who you spewed blood all over when we were saving your ass.”

 

Thor held up his palms. “Can we not start fighting – ”

 

There was a soft but insistent bell-chime. They looked as one toward the door. Which, of course, slid open without the consent of the room’s inhabitants. Not that they ended up complaining too much.

 

A statuesque golden-skinned redhead led the exquisite assemblage that brought in their breakfast. Each one of them was beautiful. Large, small, slender, muscled, curvaceous, voluptuous, reedy; male, female, a mix of both; diamond-eyed, onyx-skinned, as well as a few more human-like beings if humans were faintly luminous and smelt of spices and sea-wind.

 

And all of them wore next to nothing.

 

“We trust you will find your morning repast satisfactory. More will come in the afternoon,” said the golden woman.

 

“And once you have sated your hunger,” added a sprite with shimmering tattoos, “we will willingly satisfy your other appetites.”

 

The three of them tore their eyes away from the bevy of beauties long enough to exchange wide-eyed looks.

 

“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Loki at last, “but that roasted bird looks delicious.”

 

The hunger that suddenly hit them necessitated they fill their bellies first. And the food _was_ delicious. Even Brunnhilde ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the various tastes and textures; her methods of livelihood, while profitable, had never afforded her this level of culinary lavishness.

 

Thor, who had fallen in love with coffee on Earth, delighted in the extraordinarily rich flavour of the steaming brew served with breakfast. Loki refused to touch more than one cup even though the servers assured him by sampling it themselves. “Thanks for reminding me of my own advice,” Brunnhilde said with a wry smile. She did give in to two helpings of the delicious coffee though.

 

Once they had had their fill, the dishes were neatly put away in seconds and the serving staff began kneading their shoulders, giving them foot rubs, clearly paving the way for increasingly intimate activity.

 

“You don’t suppose...” Loki began, glancing sideways at Thor.

 

“What?” Thor frowned.

 

“I mean. Maybe it only hits us when we’re with each other.”

 

His brother’s face clouded over. “You’re not serious.”

 

“Ohh, I’m sorry. I had no idea we were in a strictly monogamous relationship.”

 

“But...in the same room!”

 

“So go to Brunnhilde’s room. Close your eyes. Pretend it’s me.” Loki smiled. “And I’ll pretend it’s you.”

 

He surveyed the serving staff. “Are there any shapeshifters among you?”

 

A dark slender woman stepped forth. “My abilities are considerable. But I cannot do animals.”

 

“Yes, well, we don’t do animals either.” He pointed to Thor. “How about him?”

 

She moved in a way where her entire body appeared to shrug. In a couple of seconds, she had become the spitting image of Thor, down to a recently won scar on his forehead.

 

“Marvellous. And...could you add some hair? Long, blond, a little bit wavy.”

 

She did as he asked. Loki beamed; Thor scowled.

 

“We’ll do our best to, ah, get a room – as they say on Midgard.” Loki led her to the adjoining chamber where Brunnhilde had been sleeping.

 

Barely seconds later they heard a scream.

 

“Damn it all to Hel!” Loki stormed back in, cradling his ribs, the Thor replica now giving him a wide berth. He jabbed a finger at his real brother. “ _You_ try someone next.”

 

“Uhh, no, thank you.” Thor rose from under the expert fingers of his masseur, a tall androgynous youth. “I think I’ll have to settle for...well. For my own company.”

 

He slipped into the bathroom and closed the door firmly. “Don’t get your mess all over!” Loki called after him with a wrinkled nose.

 

Five seconds later:

 

“FUUUUUCKK!”

 

 

 

It was with many guilty looks in the direction of the two brothers that Brunnhilde slipped away with the golden redhead woman in tow. It seemed that she alone would get to satisfy her sexual wants without limit or restraint.

 

In between trying to focus his mind on a spell that could neutralise the disc, Loki – who had forcefully dismissed the rest of the servants, now that they were an unwelcome distraction – shot glowering looks at Thor, as if this was somehow his fault. Thor was not too bothered by this. He was bothered far more by a burning lust that could not be sated by anyone; not even, it seemed, by himself.

 

“Perhaps it’s all for the best,” he said half-heartedly. “Who knows, the Grandmaster and his twisted crowd could be watching everything we do...”

 

He expected a sarcastic reply, but instead Loki favoured him with a thoughtful look. “It could explain how the discs are activated. I keep wondering how it senses sexual activity.”

 

“Gods, Loki, no. I wasn’t actually serious.” Thor’s eyes darted around in a paranoid manner. “He’s watching...? He IS watching us, isn’t he?”

 

Loki sighed. “Would you calm down? There are worse things facing us tonight than being subject to constant voyeurism, I’m sure.”

 

After a while, he gave up on the disc and instead began making small green sparks and wisps of flame with his fingers. His mind felt a little sharper now – in fact he felt more clear-headed than he had been since landing on this gods-forsaken planet. He allowed his attention to dim out the world as it spiralled into a single point. He let the edges of his consciousness drift outward to retrieve the runes and shapes of spells that waited dormant till they were called on again.

 

Occasionally he heard a whisper from intrusive voices; occasionally, he recalled a string of sweet words whispered into his ear as those ringed fingers brushed the nape of his neck, entrancing and binding him beneath the boughs of perfumed trees... He shook his head to clear away such thoughts.

 

As for Thor, he tried to lose himself in stretches and push-ups in an effort to not think about running his mouth and hands all over Loki. He stewed over how intensely unjust it was that the threat of the Games hung over all their heads, yet only Brunnhilde got to fuck her worries away. He said as much to Loki. In response he received only silence.

 

“Loki?”

 

His brother had gone into a semi-catatonic state. Or – well, meditative was more the word. Perfectly, worryingly still, so much that he did not move an eyelash when Thor poked him in various places.

 

“Looks like it’s working,” said a voice from behind him. He turned to see Loki walking out of the bathroom. Then turned back to see Loki still seated immobile beside him. The other version continued walking toward him, holding out an upturned hand. “And please stop poking me. Here, touch this.”

 

Marvelling at this wondrously sentient illusion, Thor did so and found his palm meeting solid flesh. Then he pushed lightly – and the flesh turned to light cool sand before dissipating in the air.

 

“Hmm. Could use a bit more work, but it’s getting there.” This was said by the real Loki, now woken from his unmoving state. “Also, I have to be on the move while doing this, which could be tricky....”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

He had not seen Loki beam so earnestly in ages. “I think I have a plan.”

 

Just then Brunnhilde emerged from her bedroom with the smug smile of the well-satiated. It turned into a look of alarm, then awe, when she was immediately surrounded by three Lokis.

 

“We’re busy enough without extra players, thanks,” she said as the golden woman sidled up beside her, quite naked. Then her face went serious. “Impressive magic...But this means – ”

 

“Exactly.” Loki nodded. “I’m glad _some_ one in the room can catch up.”

 

“Are they solid?” Brunnhilde squeezed the arm of a Loki clone, only for it to waver and partially crumble. Loki (the real one) frowned.

 

“I’m working on that.” He waved and the doppelgangers disappeared.

 

“Oh – but – wait. T’wyzla can help!”

 

“Who?”

 

She took her new paramour’s hand. “T’wyzla has Sovereign blood; in fact, she’s a descendant of Kismet herself – you know – ”

 

“Also known as the great Paragon, or Ayesha. I’ve read about her.” Loki’s face was guarded, but his eyes gleamed with keen interest that had nothing to do with Twyzla’s nakedness. “How much can we trust you?”

 

“I am a slave of the Imperial City as much as you; if not more,” T’wyzla replied. “As a child, I was worked half to death in the silver mines. As a woman, I was used by every man who ever passed through the Red King’s hall. I have been property of the Crown before the Grandmaster’s time. And I volunteered to serve you for a reason.”

 

Thor reached out to clasp her shoulder. She inclined her head in acknowledgment.

 

“Show them what you can do,” said Brunnhilde.

 

The woman focused her gaze on the floor, then let it drift upward over the walls, the furniture, drawing minute particles from various objects to form a rather good and very solid likeness of Brunnhilde.

 

“Its movements are very limited, though,” said the real Valkyrie, in a way that strongly suggested this experiment had been part of their bedplay. “Loki – do you think...”  


“...We could combine our abilities? It’s worth a try.”

 

That strangely radiant, earnest beam crept across his face again, and Thor – in an impulsive rush of affection – pulled him in for a kiss. It was rough and forceful and left Loki breathless.

 

“Did you have to do that in front of _them?_ ” he fumed once his eyes were no longer glazed over.

 

“Be thankful for the discs, that I didn’t do more.”

 

“Brute.” Loki scowled. Thor smiled.

 

 

 

Lunch was every bit as dazzling as breakfast, served by yet another array of beautiful people holding trays of even more exquisitely presented delicacies. Dinner was an entire roasted trizelle (a native triped mammal prized for its succulence) that could barely fit through the door. It was still smoking when two of the serving staff carved and served it, the skin wonderfully crisp and the meat infused with aromatic spices. After several helpings each they barely had room for the side dishes of a spicy, tangy salad or crystallised fruits that looked almost too pretty to eat.

 

T’wyzla and Loki indulged themselves the least; they spent nearly every spare second perfecting their conjured clones, shouting with triumph when they successfully enacted a mock battle between moving replicas of themselves, Thor, and Brunnhilde. During meals they took turns to disappear at intervals, allowing their cloned selves to emerge and interact with the servants as a test of how convincing they were.

 

Loki found it surprisingly easy to work with the red-haired woman. He also found himself throwing fewer barbs, his words less mocking or abrasive than they might have been with most. On occasion that he let loose an insult, T’wyzla shrugged it off or laughed coolly. She had the air of someone who had been through enough that such slights were as the barking of a dog up a mountain. And he was the one made to feel like that small, yappy dog.

 

“Your abilities and stamina are considerable,” he remarked reluctantly after he found himself having to take a break (blaming his healing injuries) while she soldiered on. “Why didn’t you attempt escape ages ago?”

 

She smiled ruefully. “Conditioning. From a very tender age. With the absence of both my parents, there was nobody to tell me that my own well-being mattered as much as that of the City’s governors, and its elite. I knew only that my purpose was to serve.”

 

“And what changed your mind?”

 

A short laugh. “Strangely enough, it was a pamphlet.”

 

“A...pamphlet?”

 

“I found it in the trash. Another failed revolution, I suppose.”

 

She disappeared on the spot, and just inches away from where she had been standing, a Loki in silver armour materialised.

 

Loki appraised the very convincing twin of himself. “Not quite failed.” He conjured a thought in his mind, and the twin threw a dagger into the wall opposite. It embedded itself with a _thunk_. “Not yet.”

 

 

 

The roar of the crowd was immense even from their windowless chamber, where champions were apparently contained before being unleashed to the arena. “It’s better than that trashy freak-circle I first got dumped in,” Thor commented. He rubbed his chest, thankful that their discs had been removed at least.

 

He tested the fit of the vambraces and armour he’d been equipped with; Brunnhilde did the same. They were battle-worn – Thor couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had died in his – but otherwise there was little to complain about. Sturdy, well fitting, with no signs of rust.

 

The other two had not been given armour, or indeed any kind of clothing that could be described as protective. But while the redhead had been afforded a simple tunic dress, Loki was rather sore about his own raiment, which were not so much clothes as narrow strips of blue-green silk. Thor had decided not to remark how the colour flattered his eyes. Or how bending over even an inch displayed an eyeful of ass.

 

“Alright. So. When that door opens, we take down whoever did the...opening, then we turn left while our clones turn right. Left _is_ the way out, right?” Brunnhilde was pretending not to be antsy and failing.

 

“For the ten thousandth time, yes.”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you, Loki.”

 

“You _know_ this place, don’t you?” He countered her restlessness with a mocking show of calmly examining his nails.

 

“I’ve only been to that trash circle once – to break your brother out, you’re _welcome_ – and never in here.”

 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get your bearings. Your confidence is very assuring.”

 

“You know if the plan goes balls up, you can always wiggle your ass at whoever we have to distract.”

 

Thor sighed. “Can we not – ”

 

The door swung open. All four sprung to their feet, Loki and T’wyzla with conjured knives in their hands.

 

“Oh, no need to get so testy. The battle’s not begun yet.” That smooth mulled-cider voice, so seductive when it dropped to a whisper. Loki found himself torn between falling into the man’s arms and gouging his eyes out.

 

“The two princes of Asgard, as promised.” The Grandmaster spoke to the man beside him: richly-dressed, some years older, with a dignified bearing and a shock of frost-coloured hair. His face was marked in a similar way to the Grandmaster’s; in fact they had the air of distant brothers, or cousins.

 

His blue-lined eyes appraised Thor and Loki as if they were pieces from an incomplete collection. “You’ll be sending one of them into the arena tonight? I hope he’ll not suffer too much damage.”

 

“I’ll be sure to declare a verdict before his pretty face is irreparably marked. But, you know, gods – ” an affected hand-wave – “they heal so fast. Speaking of pretty, aha, Loki my dear...would you come forward? You look well. Sorry for what we put you through, darling –”

 

“Don’t touch me,” Loki hissed. Thor loomed protectively by his side.

 

The Grandmaster laughed; a golden sound, almost pure. “Don’t they look magnificent together! And to think they’ll finally get to pleasure each other after the battle.”

 

Thor frowned. “What?” Loki gripped his arm painfully, eyes shooting daggers.

 

“I’ve pictured it all, you know. Thor, the mighty barbarian, bloodied from the fight, seeking to claim his prize...his beautiful, beloved prize. Ooh, the crowd will be wild...!”

 

He came down from his delighted reverie to gaze at the two of them. “Oh. You weren’t told?”

 

Loki’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s why the discs kept us...”

 

“Well! I mean, couldn’t have you – uh – worn out before we even begin, no? Got to build things up, get the blood going. Nothing like marching into war with a raging cock, is there?”

 

Thor fair growled as he swung out at the Grandmaster. Then he froze on the spot, his fist two inches away from the man’s head of silver hair.

 

“Mind your manners, thunder-sparkles. You too, 142. And your girlfriend.” Loki realised he had not even seen half of the man’s might as his three companions were helplessly frozen in mid-motion without so much as a gesture. He felt the crackle of ancient magic in the air. Here was a being – two beings, if he was right about their being related – far older and more powerful than him. The Grandmaster blinked slowly in his direction, and he felt an invisible seal cast all over him, stoppering his own magic beneath his skin.

 

“Don’t look so frightened, child,” said the older man. “You are an exquisite creature; I wouldn’t dream of ruining you. I simply like to examine my wares before I buy them.”

 

“Doesn’t trust his own kin, this one,” said the Grandmaster reproachfully.

 

The man said nothing, but proceeded to examine what felt like every inch of Loki’s body. He felt the push of cool unwelcome flesh in all his openings, unable to resist, to put up even a pretence of a struggle. His limbs felt weighed down somehow – as if he was indeed an inanimate object put up for display and for sale. All he could do was fix his stony gaze into the distance as two fingers invaded his mouth, and another buried itself deep in his ass, in his cunt. It was a hard, methodical prodding he was subject to, and it hurt.

 

“A bit of healing left to do. Aside from that, he is most satisfactory.” The man approached Thor, still frozen in place with his mask of rage, and ran a hand down the muscled arms and broad back. “I look forward to seeing this one in action,” he murmured. “Both quite fine indeed, in their own ways. And I trust their...after-battle performance will be quite a show.”

 

Smirking, the Grandmaster led his kinsman from the chamber. As the door opened, they could hear the crowd baying ever louder, hungry for blood.

 

A crackle of lightning made all their hair stand on end as the spell lifted and Thor, unfrozen, bellowed his rage into the air. Loki laid a hand on his chest and found himself nearly crushed by the massive arms. “I swore to not let anyone touch you like that,” said Thor. “And I –”

 

“Don’t,” Loki whispered. He closed his eyes and, for once, gave in openly to Thor’s embrace, clinging to the broad chest where – if he let himself admit it – he felt safer than anywhere in the world. He closed his eyes and let the thrumming energy flowing from his brother’s every vein renew him, reinvigorate his own magic.

 

He could have stayed there forever. Or at least for the next two hours. But there was an escape plan to see to.

 

“Now we fight,” he said. “Now we flee.”

 


End file.
